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﻿You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship!World-altar,—minaret—the place where dip﻿Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet!You guard the door of God in splendor meet,﻿Like Gabriel with holy sword on hip;In bright mist mantled from the toe to lip,﻿Tour turban set with alien stars and sweet.

If winter rule the world, or summer's sun,﻿If Giaour rage about, or winds are wild,Above them, Tschatir Dagh, you, changeless one,﻿Are like to Allah, pure and undefiled;Aloft you tower from out the lowly sod﻿To give to men again the will of God.